


the ways you said “I love you"

by silencedmockingjay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Feels, Heavy Angst, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-12 01:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silencedmockingjay/pseuds/silencedmockingjay
Summary: Based off a series of tumblr prompts with the same name.35 prompts in total, all different ways to say "I love you"... with a few self-set challenges of my own ;DRead on to find out more!((Will be updated sporadically, and tags will be updated as the work progresses)





	1. A/N before we start this journey

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: ANGST, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH 
> 
> unbeta'ed as usual
> 
> This is a work that will be updated in between my other stories, but you can expect the updates to be frequent because I need to let out some steam. 
> 
> With that, enjoy!

To explain: This is a tumblr prompt challenge called 35 ways you said "I love you" :D

Without further ado, here are the prompts: 

35 ways you said "I love you"

1\. As a hello  
2\. With a hoarse voice, under the blankets   
3\. A scream   
4\. Over a cup of tea   
5\. Over a beer bottle   
6\. On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair   
7\. As a thank you   
8\. As an apology   
9\. When baking chocolate chip cookies   
10\. Not said to me   
11\. With a shuddering gasp   
12\. When we lay together on the fresh spring grass   
13\. In a letter   
14\. A whisper in the ear   
15\. Loud, so everyone can hear   
16\. Over and over again, till it’s nothing but a senseless babble   
17\. When the broken grass litters the floor    
18\. From very far away   
19\. With no space left between us   
20\. As we huddle together, the storm raging outside   
21\. Over your shoulder   
22\. Muffled, from the other side of the door   
23\. Through a song   
24\. Without really meaning it   
25\. In a blissful sigh as you fall asleep   
26\. Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave   
27\. A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips   
28\. When I am dead   
29\. Slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey   
30\. Too quick, mumbled into your scarf   
31\. In awe, the first time you realised it   
32\. In a way I can’t return   
33\. On a post-it note   
34\. Before we jump   
35\. As a goodbye

 

BUT i decided to add in my own challenges! 

My self-set challenges: 

-Complete all prompts in order without skipping. 

-Each prompt has to be 500 words or more. 

-Each prompt is about Viktuuri.

-Each prompt CANNOT be set in the original canonverse, which means all the places that happen here are all Alternate Universes! 

And lastly... 

-Turn each prompt into unresolved/resolved angst. No fluff, no humor. All angst. 

So now you get the gist, have the first chapter! 

~Noc (silencedmockingjay) 


	2. 1. As a hello

Something’s different about the world when Viktor wakes up. 

 

It’s a small difference -  a subtle shift in the atmosphere - that nevertheless leaves Viktor with a twinge of worry. Everything feels like it doesn’t run as smoothly anymore, the cogs jamming a little here and there, the teeth not really the perfect size, and the subtle changes are jarring to Viktor, throwing him off. 

 

Nevertheless, Viktor goes through his usual morning routine, brushing his teeth, pulling on a grey t-shirt, some black stylish jeans, and his RU jacket for his usual practice in the ice rink. All the while, the nagging feeling, like he’s forgotten something, keeps gnawing at the back of his mind like an itch that can’t go away. 

 

It’s like something is missing from his memory, an essential part he can’t live without, something that he thinks about every waking moment but is now gone, erased from his memory. 

 

Even his apartment feels different - the cold atmosphere has shifted into something more… friendly? Warm? He can’t really tell, because his emotions are a jumbled mess by this point, the weird feeling worrying away at the ends of his patience. 

 

When he walks into the kitchen, the first thing that hits him is the smell. 

 

It’s the tantalising scent of borscht. 

 

Just a whiff of it hits Viktor instantly with a truckload of memories, of his grandmother stirring up plateful after plateful of the heavenly tasting russian delicacy, of tender words as his mother spooned mouthful after mouthful of borscht into his mouth when he was fever hot and delirious with pain, of his father’s brown eyes and heart-shaped smile and his mother’s platinum hair and blue eyes. 

 

But… who can be in his house cooking borscht? Only Yakov has the key to his apartment, and he should be at the ice rink waiting for him to show up to practice. 

 

Then he sees brown eyes and black hair, and the only thought he has is  _ what the -  _ before the man tackles him to the ground, kissing Viktor softly and sweetly at first before nuzzling the sensitive spot on the left side of his neck. 

 

“Happy birthday, Vitya. I love you,” the man breathes, finally sitting up from where they’re both sprawled on the white marble tiles of the kitchen floor. It’s only now, as the light streams through the windows and hits the mysterious yet somehow familar Asian man at an angle  _ just right _ that Viktor can revel in how beautiful he looks. He looks Japanese, maybe 24 or 25 years old with blue glasses perched daintily on top of his flushed red nose, and his face is aglow with tenderness and affection as he gazes fondly at Viktor. And it’s full of something as well, something Viktor can’t quite put his finger on - 

 

_ Happy birthday, Vitya. I love you.  _

 

Love? 

 

_ Vitya.  _

 

His russian diminutive. 

 

Only Yakov, Mila, Georgi and Yurio used his diminutive. 

 

“Excuse me,” he interrupts the moment, against his wishes. 

 

But he really has to know. He wants to know who is this Asian beauty sitting next to him on the kitchen floor, who somehow snuck into his apartment to cook borscht, who wished him happy birthday -  _ Is it really his birthday? He can’t remember  _ \- and told him he loved him. 

 

And yet, he can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s a gut feeling nagging at the back of his brain that screams at him,  _ you know him you fool! You know him - he loves you - obviously he’s someone close to you! _

 

But he can’t remember who he is, or his name, or where he’s from , or his relation to him. 

 

The wrong feeling from before returns again, in surges and surges, from lapping waves on the seashore to crashing, rolling white horses galloping in the surf, pounding against the beach. 

 

“Who are you?” 

 

***

 

**prompt 1: as a hello (complete)**


	3. 2. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a blend with my school writing style than my usual, so feedback would be appreciated! ^O^
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

It used to be about little things. 

 

It was about their clothes in the wardrobe, hanging haphazardly together until it was impossible to tell whose shirts belonged to whom, about two mugs, two sets of cutlery, two plates in the kitchen sink. 

 

It didn’t matter. 

 

It was about how their little preferences were the opposites of each other, and how they attracted; (or had they, really?) how his lover preferred coffee while he chose tea at quiet dates in alley cafes, about how he loved the quiet whispers of a bar with red wine glass in hand while his lover preferred small sips of whiskey in glass cups and sunset-tinted bottles. 

 

It didn’t matter. 

 

It was about how their little moments together meant everything (to him, or his lover? He didn’t know now), about hoarse I love yous under the soft blankets in the silence of the night, about being in each other’s arms as they watched the blazing ball of fire in the sky sink below the horizon every single day, about the crack of blades against ice as they twirled on its surface, bodies moving and twisting and speaking a silent language, a language only the two of them understood, weaving and telling stories that only they knew. 

 

It didn’t matter anymore. 

 

None of it did. 

 

_ (Did it ever matter, in the first place?)  _

 

_ (He isn’t so sure anymore.) _

 

***

 

It was about little things. 

 

It was about his lover leaving his clothes on the bed, dirty and unwashed; it was about his lover leaving him for longer and longer periods, with fewer phone calls, fewer greetings in the morning, fewer I love yous whispered in the ear; it was about his lover talking more frequently to the press now, winking and charming his way through his interviews, a marked change from what he had been before; it was about waking up early in the mornings, hand stretched  across the sheets to the already cold and empty other side, his lover nowhere to be seen; it was about the clock in the corner and its incessant ticking, as if it was ticking down the time to the catalyst when it would all end. 

 

Tick-tock. 

 

Tick-tock. 

 

_ (You can’t stop time, you can’t stop demise.) _

 

Tick-tock. 

 

Tick-tock. 

 

_ (His heart is soaring and diving and screaming and shattering.)  _

 

Tick-tock. 

 

Tick-tock. 

 

_ (what, what is happening, he doesn’t understand what is happening, only that he is standing in front of him and saying things that he shouldn’t be hearing, because it’s impossible, no, no-)  _

 

Tick-tock. 

 

Tick-tock. 

 

Tick-

 

***

 

It’s still about little things. 

 

It’s about how there’s the absence of a mug on the kitchen table. 

 

It’s about how he only needs to fluff one pillow on one side of the bed, about how he only needs to fold one mattress, about how the other side of the bed is empty in the morning light. 

 

It’s about how there’s only one person’s clothes in the cupboard, which now seems too large and empty.  

 

It’s about how his heart throbs with every passing day, about how he spends more and more time at the bar surrounded by sunset tinted bottles  _ (like the flame-colored sky that they used to watch with every passing day),  _ about how he feels empty inside, as if all of him has left with his lover, like wisps of smoke airborne by the wind. 

 

He can still remember every single wisp of memory, twining around his arms, his legs, his neck, tying him up and pinning him down to the cold hard ground, so tightly he can’t breathe, and it takes him such a long time -  _ or was it minutes? He can’t tell - can’t remember -  _ to realise that he’s hyperventilating. 

 

But it doesn’t matter, does it? 

 

Because he’s still  _ gone.  _

 

_ Did it ever matter?  _

_  
_

** 2\. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets (complete)    
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave it up to you guys to decide who left ;)
> 
> ((Yes, this was intentionally vague!))

**Author's Note:**

> Scream with me on Tumblr at the url overcome-chihoko! 
> 
> i love making new friends :D
> 
> Also, for each comment I get i'll hurry the writing process by 5 hours :D so don't hesitate to spam the comment section!!! Comments give me life <3


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